


where do the birds go when we cry?

by wanderlustt



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adult Lovers, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Church Sex, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Religious Sacrilege, Romance, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, claudeleth NSFW week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderlustt
Summary: First kiss, first time, first love -- Byleth shares all of her firsts with Claude.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth & Claude von Riegan, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 23
Kudos: 227





	where do the birds go when we cry?

**Author's Note:**

> like the tags say, this is a childhood friend -> adult lovers AU! I really shouldn’t be writing new fics when I have several in-progress fics but to be fair this is just a one-shot & I wanted to contribute something to Claude/Byleth NSFW week.
> 
> Prompts I mixed together because I want to cover all the ground I missed (big sigh, I am bad): near religious, not a feast if you don’t eat too much.

**_Age_** _: 7_ , first kiss.

*

It’s always the same, Byleth sighs. The slums of Enbarr _always_ smell like hot shit left out rotting on a summer day.

Lords and ladies of the court file across the cobblestone bridge in pretty stockings while she mills about, watching the peasants below swarm like ants in the shadows of the canal. Some of them have taken residence there, erecting makeshift tents, claiming unoccupied territory, while others have seemingly given up, stagnant like statues, just waiting for the sands of time to claim their fates.

Among them sits a corpse—yes, _a corpse_ , or at least the remains of one, hanging off the edge near the canal. It looks like a 10-foot drop. She couldn’t say; it’s hard to tell from this angle and the smell is overwhelming. She turns away, wrinkling her nose -- _she wants to leave, how long is Jeralt going to take—_

**_SPLASH!_ **

Byleth turns to see the corpse floating down stream—no, _not a corpse_.

A kid.

Just like her.

 _He’s floating downstream_ and the floozy who’s taking a piss at the water’s edge only pauses to let him pass before continuing his stream.

From the bridge, she follows his body until he hits the end of the canal, cushioned by the island of garbage that’s collected by the walls. The water is brown and murky here and the stench of shit punches the air thick. How pitiful, unlucky, and worst of all, _filthy,_ she thinks, squatting at the edge to watch him.

For a while, she’s content with just feeling sorry for him until—

He sputters, choking out water from his lungs, finding only the barest strength to pull himself back onto the cobblestoned shore, where it’s dry—before collapsing onto his back again.

_Huh. So he has some fight in him._

Byleth approaches him, climbing down the walls until her feet are planted firmly on the ground. She’s light on her feet, skipping over and coming to a full stop when her shadow is hovering over his face.

He’s tan, _cute_ , and terribly thin—so much so that she can see how gaunt his face is, how much his collarbone protrudes, like needles pushing through skin, and how wiry his arms and legs are.

He opens one eye. Meets her gaze dead on.

“I’m Byleth,” she says, blinking at him. “What’s your name?”

His face turns red. Did she say something wrong? She cocks her head to the side, wondering, but doesn’t get a chance to figure it out before he speaks up.

“Claude,” he whispers.

*

He smells awful, but she can deal with the stench later. She takes him to the nearest baker, asks him to wait outside, and returns with two loafs of bread. “My dad’s a mercenary, so he takes jobs from all sorts of people, even the emperor,” she explains to him very maturely, _very wisely_ , having practiced this introduction many times in many cities across Fodlan. “Sometimes the king, sometimes the alliance leader too. He always tells me a job is a job.”

She offers him a loaf. He takes it, albeit hesitantly, staring at it like it’s some immaculate treasure that might vanish in his hands any second. “How much does he get paid,” he asks, biting down with a _crunch,_ words muffled in all that yeasty goodness.

Byleth chews on her bread slowly and thoughtfully, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she watches him devour his loaf. “Dunno. He won’t tell me,” she says. “But whenever we return from the empire, his sack of gold is always twice the size of what he gets in the kingdom.”

He acknowledges this with a soft _hm_ as she wipes away the crumbs from her hands. She notices, of course, that he eats every last crumb between his fingers, _even the ones that look smaller than ants_ , and when she looks back at the bakery, she smiles. “Want more?”

He looks at her, blushes, and nods.

*

Byleth ends up lugging around a bag of baguettes and pastries, each with varying degrees of frilly, creamy excess, while Claude eyes a passing grandma with her coin pouch dangling precariously from her waistband.

She keeps an eye on his hands and the way they twitch.

Quicker than a shadow, his hand darts out -- but Byleth drops the bag of bread and grabs him before his fingers can grasp the pouch. “You shouldn’t steal from old ladies,” she whispers, and all at once he wilts because the look of disappointment on her face is so intense he can nearly feel the weight push down on his shoulders. “Dad always said you shouldn’t take from those who don’t have the power to fight back.”

Claude frowns.

“What is it? I can get you what you want. Dad gave me a lot of silver coins.”

Still, he keeps frowning, seizing her wrist and tugging her towards the storefront of the nearby jeweler, who has at least a dozen rubies and emerald necklaces sitting in the window on display. His eyes fall to a muted gold ring sitting among them, looking very much out of place. “That,” he says. “That’s my ring. My dad’s old ring.”

Byleth freezes, clutching her bag of bread tighter.

“I had to pawn it off years ago,” he explains, with no indication he expects her to buy it for him—not that she can, anyway. That ring is worth more than all the silvers in her pouch. “It’s still there.” He turns to look at her, and smiles. “But one day I’ll get it back.”

*

They amble through the streets of Enbarr, the spires of the church looming in the distance behind the palace. It’s a rather pretty sight, albeit one that’s tired and old. “Claude?” Byleth studies it with a discerning eye, taking equal care to avoid the pathway leading to her father’s party of mercenaries, who are perusing the marketplace at a leisurely pace.

“Mmfph?”

She glances over her shoulder to check he’s still following her. “Why don’t you just go live in the church? They take orphans, don't they?” she states somewhat flippantly as she passes him another loaf of bread from the bag.

He takes it, still chewing through the last bites of his current loaf. “They don’t take kids that look like me.”

“Oh.”

Byleth turns back around, elbowing past the colorful stockings of the central marketplace. She can’t explain why but she doesn’t quite like the sound of that. “That’s too bad,” she says instead, measured and tempered as she comes to a full stop before the church doors, tall and looming. “Claude?”

“Mmprfh?”

“Churches have a lot of bread too,” she states. “Wafers, I mean. I’ve seen them stockpile thousands of them in their kitchens.” Then, as she slows down to look at the stained-glass windows—the avenue of rich patrons, tourists, and ladies who make their way through the doors. “They probably have a lot more than they need, right?”

“But you said your dad taught you never to steal from those—”

“Who can’t fight back.” Byleth watches the armed guards at the gate. “And they have an army. The Knights of Seiros. They don't count. Technically.”

Claude licks off the last bit of crumbs from his hands before patting them dry on his pants. “Keep a look out for me, will ya?”

Byleth beams.

*

“Are those… _communion wafers_?”

Jeralt is utterly flummoxed, knitting his brows together like Byleth has just offloaded a pound of bad news at his doorstep. “Why do you have so many of them?” He’s actually not sure where to begin as he lowers his gaze to the kid next to her—an orphan by the looks of it, _an orphan with three whole sacks of communion wafers_. He starts to put two and two together. “What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

But Byleth bypasses all the questioning without a hitch, without any indication she’d heard any of them at all. “Can we bring him with us?”

Jeralt blinks. _Sighs_. “No. He’s not a puppy—he probably has a family to return to.” He knows he’s lying, _making up excuses_ , and Byleth knows that too.

Claude is uncharacteristically quiet, lowering his gaze to the communion wafers. Byleth studies his reaction before continuing. “But da—”

“Byleth. We’re not taking him with us. That’s final.” He fishes out two gold coins from the pouch attached to his waistband and hands them over, which Claude takes. “Bring that to your mom and dad, understand?”

Jeralt takes off towards the horses, where the rest of the mercenaries are gathering supplies.

Byleth watches him carefully from a distance before turning to Claude. “Give me a second.” She grins at him. Winks. “And keep a look out for me, will you?”

“Byleth, what’re you—”

She takes off before he gets the chance to finish his question, and for the most part, he obeys, keeping a look out at the horses, the men milling about, _the uninhibited bustle_. A single kid— _a single girl no less_ —running around among them is easily forgettable. And when she nicks the sack of gold from Jeralt’s waist, she looks like nothing more than a shadow, just as quick—just as fast.

She returns with a sack of coins— _a sack of **gold** coins_—and shoves them into Claude’s arms.

“ _Byleth_ ,” he hisses. “I can’t take this.”

“Yes you can. For your ring.” She beams, not giving him time to protest—leaning in to press her lips to his cheek. “See you!”

He gapes, watching her take off down the hill along with Jeralt, who looks none the wiser.

*

 ** _Age_** _: 14_ , first (real) kiss.

*

 _It’s always the same_ , Byleth thinks, staring into the murky waters of the canal.

The smell hasn’t changed, _you can never hide the smell of shit_ , even with daisies and roses -- as she gazes at her reflection in the water she wonders how hard she’d have to hit it to die on impact. _Perhaps a bit higher...just a bit--_

A shadow crosses her eyeline.

It’s a loaf of bread.

She blinks at it.

The hand attached to it is tan, and she turns to see a boy— _a boy just like her_ , once upon a time, dressed in robes befitting of a military uniform. “It’s been a while,” he says, grinning at her, still holding the loaf of bread in offering.

The air between them goes utterly quiet. People come and go and she can’t hear them— _they’re muted_. “C—Claude?”

“Flesh and blood,” he says, mock-bowing. “Flattered you still remember me.”

She blinks again, looking at the loaf of bread—then back at him. “Of course I remember you,” she says, voice barely a whisper as the bustle of the cobblestone bridge returns. “H—what’re you—” She doesn’t know where to begin. There’s so much she wants to say, _so much she wants to ask_ , but the loaf of bread in his hand is still staring her in the face.

“Bread,” he says, smiling. “We should share it.”

 _Oh_?

He takes a step closer and she tries to keep the distance between them peeled, but her back hits the edge of the bridge and she stops steady in her tracks. He leans in, his face only inches away from hers as she begins to blush. “You looked like you were going to throw yourself into the canal,” he says breezily.

“I—” Byleth lowers her gaze. “I considered it.”

Claude offers her a hand this time. "Maybe we can talk about it."

She thinks about it—and it’s only here she sees a familiar gold ring hanging on a chain around his neck. “You...you got your ring back.”

"I did."

She takes his hand without hesitation.

*

They share bread and cheese by the canals, eating away while watching the water pass them by below. “Used the gold you gave me to enroll myself into a military school, if you can believe it,” he tells her—and there’s more to it: he’s the best in his class -- _not that it matters because his interests lie elsewhere and school is just a stepping stone to get where he wants_ \-- the professors adore him, and at least three royal families in Enbarr have offered him a position of counsel in their homes.

“Only recently got this back after a fair bit of working,” he says, fingering the ring around his neck. “I suppose I ought to offer my thanks now.”

“I’m glad,” she tells him, _and she means_ _it_. Nothing between them has changed, even after all these years. Claude talks more extravagantly now; he looks more animated, _lively_ , and though she can’t quite put a finger on what it is about him that looks _different_ , she can say with certainty that those brilliant green eyes of his haven’t changed a bit.

“So.” He chews on his bread thoughtfully, looking at her with half-lidded eyes. “Mercenary life not what it’s cracked up to be, huh?”

Well, he isn’t too far off from the truth, _the truth being that Byleth had taken yet another life yesterday for a job_. Though the feeling of killing is far from novel, it still hurts the same, knowing that it had been her swordhand that cut away his last vestige of life. _She had ended his right to exist_ —for what? A pouch of gold?

“Something like that,” she decides at last.

He nods, slowly. Understanding. “You—uh—you’ve changed.”

“I have?”

“You’re…quieter now,” he states. “More—hm…mature, I suppose?”

Byleth laughs—it’s been so long since she’s laughed, the taste nearly foreign on her tongue. “The last time we saw each other we were kids.” She glances at the spires of the church in the distance, wondering. “Stealing communion wafers.”

Claude turns his nose. “Ask me if I regret it.”

She decides to humor him. “Did you regret it?”

“Absolutely not.”

She laughs again, shorter this time— _much more familiar_. She quite likes the taste of laughing in her mouth.

Stealing from a church—it’s a long-forgotten memory that’s just beginning to surface. They had done it in jest, but was it so different from what she did now? Mercenaries were just another species of thief, weren’t they?

 _A job is a job_ , she thinks, staring at her hands and remembering just how bloodstained they’d been yesterday. _A job is a job_ , she tells herself again. _It’s always the same_.

Still, she wants to forget.

“Claude?”

“Hm?”

“Will you…” She lowers her gaze to her lap. “Will you kiss me?”

He blinks.

Byleth’s face goes hot while he keeps staring at her, _as if waiting for her to change her mind_ , which she doesn’t. But now his hesitation has stretched into uncomfortable silence and she can’t help but fiddle with the hem of her shirt.

 _She needs do do something_. “Can I—I mean, _do you mind if we_ —um. I. Just.” Her chest rises and falls with fast, shallow breaths, her initial wave of confidence wavering.

Slowly, somewhat shakily, Claude casts his loaf of bread back into the bag from whence it came, and sets his hands on Byleth’s shoulders. It’s steady enough, as he turns her to face him.

“I would love to kiss you,” he whispers, voice coarse as sand—and just as quickly, he leans in, eyes hazy, _lips just beginning to part_. Byleth holds her breath, knowing that this new territory she’s never explored before. This is something she ought to remember right but _her heart is pounding so loud she can hear it in her ears_.

He leans in slowly—until he loses all patience, his lips crashing forward to close the last few inches.

It’s a terribly clumsy kiss, _Byleth’s first_ —probably Claude’s first too. Her teeth click with his, and she feels her stomach jump when his tongue starts probing into her mouth. In fact, it’s so overwhelming, she has to reach up to hold onto his shoulders to steady herself.

He gets gentler, realizing this is too much _too fast_ , and winds his fingers through her hair, angling her just a bit more so he can explore more of her mouth. He’s hungry, _desperately so_ , but never pushes past eager. She realizes he’s learning what she likes, taking stock of all her little whimpers of excitement.

“Ahem.”

Suddenly he stops, pulling back.

Jeralt’s standing before them and Byleth notices only then that she’s never _ever_ seen her father look like this before—never seen him this angry, _never seen him this upset_. Not even on the battlefield, not even when he’s on the brink of death and back. She’s seen him with more kindness in his eye for the man holding a blade to his neck.

But he doesn’t say much, just grabs Byleth by the wrist and tugs her to her feet. “We’re leaving,” he snaps.

Claude follows suit, frantically, but there’s not much he can say. _They’ve been caught_. “Wait—"

Jeralt doesn’t wait, pulling her away.

“Claude!” She calls, but he’s smiling at her, the bag of bread sitting firm beside his feet, and she knows, _she just knows_ , they’ll meet again.

*

 ** _Age_** _: 18_ , first time.

*

 _It’s always the same_ , Byleth sighs, staring up at the altar of the goddess while some unsuspecting priest drones on about the chosen word, _Seiros_ , and the rightful scripture.

She sighs because the church smells like mothballs and cobwebs, _old and stuffy_ , full of perfumes from desperate ladies and the musk of overeager lords.

They’re one in the same, opining old legends as gospel truths, begging— _begging for more,_ despite having everything they could possibly need.

Byleth detests them, and even as she pretends to pray, hands clasped together, face buried, she keeps one eye open to keep a look out. _You never know_ , she thinks, and she’s not willing to take a chance, not even in a church. After all, it wasn’t long ago in Enbarr when she decided to saddle up and take a sack of communion wafers from the kitchen pant—

“Never pegged you for the religious type.”

A stranger—tan, cute, hair slicked up with what looks like…wax? Byleth blinks at him, the realization dawning slowly as a smile lights up her face. “Don’t know if I’d say I’m religious—maybe just opportunistic,” she doesn’t miss a beat. “Claude—"

“ _Shhhhhh!_ ” The stuffy court lady sitting in front of her presses her fingers to her lips, _giving them a look of utter disapproval_.

Claude smiles apologetically and offers Byleth a hand. “The church suits you well.” Unwittingly, she takes his offer, standing up from her seat—he doesn’t let go, leading her towards the back, where the exit is. “What a coincidence seeing you here. I’d say we have a lot of catching up to do, don’t you think?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

*

 _It’s always the same_ —Byleth thinks—as they find themselves with a bag of bread by the canals, watching the sun set over the spires of the church. The sky’s bleeding, _it’s strikingly red_ , and Byleth thinks, of course, that the sunsets in Enbarr may just be the most beautiful she’s seen across Fodlan.

“Seems like every time we meet we’re short on time,” Claude says, biting down on a bun and tearing away a sliver. “Shall we play a game of question and answer before your father returns and whisks you away into the night?”

Byleth follows suit. “What do you want to know?”

He kicks his legs, watching the shadows swarm underneath the bridge. _Nothing has changed_ —the inhabitants below are still milling about. “Why were you praying?”

“Thought I’d try my hand at something new,” she says, only somewhat honest: _she had been told to wait at the church_ _by Jeralt_ , probably to avoid this very situation, but she wasn’t about to admit that aloud.

“And?”

She shrugs. “My turn.” She turns to look at him, shifting only an inch closer. “Have you fallen in love yet?”

“No foreplay at all, _straight to the point._ How very predictable, as a mercenary is.” Claude laughs, somewhat bitterly. “Why, of course I’ve fallen in love—here and there, sometimes short, sometimes long. Love comes in different forms, though, even if it’s a quick tryst in the red-light district.” He glances at her. “You?”

Life on the road didn’t give her much time to spare. She had to figure out rather quickly what she liked, and even then, she was short on developing anything meaningful past the physical. “Like you, here and there,” she smiles, lowering her gaze to the bag of bread sitting between them.

“Ah, keeping your cards close. I see how it is.”

Byleth smiles. “I’m only keeping them close because you are.”

“Fair enough.” He smiles back—has he always been this handsome? _Of course he has_. “Shall we keep them closer somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else?”

Dusk settles over the spires of the church and Claude glances back at Byleth to see if she’s game.

She is.

*

Claude has never considered himself a devout follower of the sacred word, not when the church had a history of picking and choosing the kind of subjects it wanted.

He had bigger concerns keeping himself alive on the streets, _avoiding the guards with jagged-tooth smiles_ , and trying to find a place to sleep that wasn’t already occupied territory. He had been alone for most his life -- most of his friends died of starvation, dehydration -- and he expected he would end up just like them, until, well, _her_.

With nothing more than a pouch of gold coins, he kept the image of Byleth faint in his mind as he enrolled himself in school, ascended the ranks, and learned all the proper teachings of a court royal.

So when he leans in to kiss her under the altar of the goddess, he thinks this is divine intervention. This is the goddess paying him back tenfold for all he’s endured, _all he’s seen_ , and all he’s come to forget.

It feels right, of course, to worship the girl who changed his life. Even as he lowers her to the carpeted floors, even as he clutches her so tight—

“I’ve missed you,” Claude mutters, face between her legs. She’s utterly spread out before him, shorts pulled down, along with those stupidly ugly stockings. The only thing left is a pair of underwear -- _black, muted, something strangely characteristic of her_ \-- soaked to the core. “More than you know.”

He traces his fingers up against the soft outline of her entrance, stops when he feels the swell of her clit. She whimpers, _and he presses gently against it_ , feeling it quiver underneath the pads of his fingertips. “Missed you,” she echoes, grabbing him by the wrist, pulling his finger into her mouth and giving it a soft suck. She tastes just the barest essence of herself, and the sight alone is enough to make him go rock hard.

Lowering himself, he kisses her through the fabric of her underwear, his teeth grinding into the hem as the stickiness catches onto his lip.

She moans, arching her back as he slips another finger into her mouth to muffle the sounds. _Even a pin drop would echo through this damned place_ —and the last thing Claude needs is a line of clergymen to walk in on what appears to be utter sacrilege.

“Claude?”

“Hm?”

Byleth holds his fingers tenderly to her chest. “Will you…” _She blushes—of course she blushes_. “Will you—finger me?”

God she looks so cute when she’s pleading.

Claude grins, pulling his hand back and thumbing away the fabric of her underwear from her entrance—lowering his face and getting a whiff of her arousal, _thick, heady, and utterly coercive_. He can feel her breath hitch as he carefully slips one finger into her slick, wet opening.

A groan of relief escapes her as she tenses around him, the heat of her walls so tight he can’t help but think about what it’d feel like to have her seize around his cock.

A bead of sweat forms over his brow as he takes a breath, feeling her squirm underneath his weight as he curls that finger inside of her, _not quite pumping her yet_ , just wanting to see what kind of reaction it’ll elicit.

Byleth arches her back, wanting to fit more of him inside her. “F- _fuh—ah_!” Which comes out as more of a whimper than a groan—it echoes through the chamber and Claude thinks he might never forget this moment. Not for a long time, anyway.

He lowers his face closer again, his tongue flattening against her clit, swollen pink in arousal. She tastes _so damn good_ and he can’t help but moan against her, even as she bucks her hips into his face.

He slips another finger inside her, stretching her, and the sopping wet sound of her, _her breathy whimpers of desperation_ , is enough to make him want to cum too. He swirls his tongue this way and that, trying to register what it is exactly that makes her quiver -- but decides at last that it doesn’t matter because she just wants more.

So he experiments, curling his tongue, _sucking at her clit with his lips soaked_. “Claude— _Claude_ ,” she whispers, and he finds quickly that he quite likes the breathless desperation in her voice. His entire lower face is soaked with her and his jaw’s beginning to go sore, but he’s _hungry_ —starving, lapping her up like he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in years.

Her fingers run through his hair and she’s clawing at his scalp, desperately to pull him closer. Each pump of his fingers has her reeling back, thrusting her cunt into his face. “ _Oh—please, yes, just like that_ ,” she whispers so softly—and even so, those whispers echo. _Screaming._

 _Yes, please, just like that, yes, please, just like that_.

“C- _ah_ —Claude, _please_. I’m so close.”

He hums against her center, curling his finger tightly—and all it takes is one more suck for her to unravel in his mouth.

She cums with a whimper, even as Claude continues lapping away, hungry to get every tremor of her orgasm out of her—even as she attempts to push his face away. “S- _sensitive_!” She laughs, but he just keeps going, and only when she’s starting to feel a bloom of an itch inside her again does he pull away, leaving her hanging.

He unbuckles his pants, leaving them in a heap around his ankles, and starts stroking his erection. “Take off your shirt,” he tells her—and she obliges, of course, undoing the clasps and letting it crumple around her stomach.

He takes a moment to take in the sight of her—her naked breasts, her pretty pink nipples, and the…scars. A hiss escapes him as he teases her entrance of her cunt, precum mixing in with her wetness.

Slowly, he works his way inside her, the hot wetness of her walls strangling out a groan from his throat.

She moans, pulling him in tighter, wrapping her legs around his back, until he’s completely buried inside her to the hilt. “You're beautiful—” He lowers his face to hers, planting a wet kiss to her cheek. “ _And—_ you feel so good.”

He moves, bucking his hips gently—the friction between them making him slick with sweat. Her nails dig into his back, and it takes him time to find his rhythm, feeling her sopping wet contractions each time he pulls out and digs right back in with the same force.

He has to take a breath, _calm himself_ , to stop from finishing inside her too quickly, but he’s a man of patience—and most importantly, great care.

Byleth arches her back, the muscles of her stomach coiling tight beneath him. “ _Mmfh_ —feels… _ah!_ ” He hits her a particularly hard thrust and she closes her eyes, _straining for something she can’t quite reach yet_. “Claude—”

“Keep saying my name, darling.”

He wants to cum inside her, he thinks, _he want to cum inside her_ —god he wants to cum. It’s harder to keep his rhythm now, _too rushed_ and frantic, and he knows she’s aching to cum too. He glances down to see her touching herself, her fingers rubbing sloppy circles against her clit, and where they’re connected—well, that’s quite a sight.

“Claude—”

He drowns her with a kiss, his tongue running across hers, across her lips, _playing with her_. Everything around them is beginning to spin, and that itch is beginning to _hurt_.

“Claude— _ah!_ "

She cums first, her fingers working out the quivers of her orgasms as he continues driving himself in and out— _in and out_ : it’s so wet, _so warm_ , so slick—and the wave of pleasure hits him like a battering ram, spreading from his crotch to his fingertips.

But he keeps going, fucking her through her orgasm until her hands fall limply to her side and she’s melted in the afterglow, the sheen of sweat on her face so pretty— _glowing_ under dim candlelight.

He pulls out, cock still wet with their mixed arousal, and collapses next to her on the floor.

She turns to bury her face into his shoulder.

“Next question," he says, after a moment to catch his breath. "Your future?”

Byleth laughs; what an utterly ridiculous thing to say post-coitus. Still, she considers it and decides to humor him. “I…I’ll probably continue working until father finds me a proper suitor to marry,” she says. "Or maybe I'll find someone while I'm on the road." She looks up to meet his gaze, feeling somewhat somber at the thought.

A moment of silence passes between, and she finds herself content just with the thought of this silly little memory. _All these memories, actually_. From the moment she met him in the canals to when they first broke bread together, she'll never forget it.

Claude holds out the ring from his neck. “Or you can just marry me.”

She laughs again, but when she looks at him, she realizes this is no jest—he’s serious.

He takes her hand gently in his, presses a kiss to her knuckles. “So? What do you say?” The ring looks like it's been sized smaller, _much smaller_ , small enough to fit...her finger.

Slowly, not all at once, she nods, a smile stretching wide on her face as she turns to meet his gaze—fat _hot_ tears welling up in her eyes.

“ _Yes_."

It's always the same, she sighs. It's always the same and she might prefer it this way _._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading & happy new year everyone!
> 
> @ [wanderlu5tt](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if u wanna scream about claude and fe3h with me !!!!


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